


All Beginnings

by Jennytheshipper



Series: Mating Habits of the Emperor Penguin [3]
Category: Anne Boleyn - Fandom, Henry VIII - Fandom, History - Fandom, Tudors, mary boleyn - Fandom, thomas cromwell - Fandom, wolf Hall
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, a lot of stuff about cooking rice?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 10:10:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12010536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennytheshipper/pseuds/Jennytheshipper
Summary: So, you want an ending for all this? Well, this fic has more endings than Return of the King, and a couple of beginnings as well.





	All Beginnings

“The word 'however' is like an imp coiled beneath your chair. It induces ink to form words you have not yet seen, and lines to march across the page and overshoot the margin. There are no endings. If you think so you are deceived as to their nature. They are all beginnings. Here is one.”

-Hilary Mantel, _Bring Up the Bodies_

**Part I**

The cell phone vibrated on the night stand. Tom sat up in bed and brought it close to his face: the time was 5:05 in the bloody morning. It was never good news at 5:05 in the bloody morning.

“We’ve been at the hospital all night.” It was Wolsey’s wife, Bess. “They did all they could. He’s gone, Tom.”

“I’ll be right there. Wait. Which hospital?”

“No, there’s nothing for you to do. Georgie is here if I need anything. Can you come to the house in a few hours?”

He could. Tom rang off and stared at the phone still in his hand. Numbly, he swiped in to check his text messages. Nothing new. He opened the last thread from Henry. Though he had memorized the exchange, he reread it now:

H: Miss you.

T: Me too.

H: Can you come over?

T: Too much work. Maybe tomorrow?

H: :/... I’ll get back to you.

When Liz had died there had been a voicemail. “Hi, it’s me. I’m running late. See you soon.” It was the reason he still hung on to his land line. There had been no last message from Wolsey, no words from the other side. He’d spoken to him the night before last. He’d seemed cheerful and chatty. He’d charged Tom to “look into this business of the prenup for Henry Tudor.”

Tom had put his hand over the phone and whispered, “fer fuck’s sake.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. I just sneezed. I don’t think he’s going to be needing that prenup.”

“Surely you don’t trust Anne Boleyn to--”

“I don’t think he’ll be marrying her at all.”

“Trust you to have the inside gossip,” Wolsey had said. There was a warmth in his voice, a kindness that was always there. Tom remembered it now. He wished that _he’d_ been kinder.

“Well, it might only be a rumor. No smoke without fire, though.”

“Indeed, Tom. Now, I was thinking,” his voice had sunk to a whisper, “we might make a trip into the office later this week. You could come get me on the auspices of some innocent outing, appropriate for children and invalids. A trip to the sea shore-”

“The sea shore! They’ll never buy that.”

“The park then. I haven’t been round the park in years.”

Neither had Tom, though he’d spent many nights sleeping on its benches in his youth.

“I don’t know. It’s a tight week. Things are stacked up. I’ve got all these trade deals to close.”

“I know how busy you are.” Wolsey had sounded defensive. “A few hours of your time is all I ask. I could help you with some of it, perhaps.”

Tom hadn’t checked the annoyance in his voice before answering. ”I’ll see. How ‘bout I get back to you?”

Wolsey’s nurse, Madelaine, had come in then to give him his meds and scold him for talking business.  “It’s only Tom,” Wolsey had said. “He’s giving me news from town.”

“A pair of old ladies. Give me that,” Madelaine had said, taking the phone from Wolsey. Tom heard a scuffle of hands on the other end.

“Tom, this is Maddy.”

“Hello Maddy.”

“Don’t ‘hello’ me. You know he should have been asleep ages ago.”

“Sorry. I’ll try not to ring so late.”

“Don’t cover for him. I know he rung you. I can see it on the outgoing calls list.”

Tom had chuckled. “Alright Maddy, alright. Well, goodnight then.” He’d hung up after that. He found himself now wishing she’d put Wolsey back on the line. What would he have said, other than “goodnight”? Wolsey must have felt that he’d been intruding. And he hadn’t been. Not really. It was only the sore subject, Anne Boleyn, that had rankled Tom.

+++

They had moved a hospital bed into Wolsey’s study. It had already been stripped and folded up, ready to be carted away.

“The papers are all in there,” Bess told him, pointing to an accordion file on the desk. “He had them out a few days ago. But they should all be there now.”

“I’ll look through it. There shouldn’t be anything irregular. He would have said, I think.”

Bess nodded. She looked exhausted, but there was an energy to her voice as if she had found a reserve somewhere and was in a hurry to use it before it was gone.

“There’s one more thing. I’m not sure how to bring it up,” she said, picking up a pair of Wolsey’s glasses from the desk and putting them back in their case.

“Oh, what is it?” Tom said, pretending to be absorbed in the accordion file.

“There’s a woman. I’m not sure if you know about her.”

“I have some idea,” Tom said, not taking his eyes off the file. He had met Wolsey’s “woman,” Janet Larke, a couple of times. She lived in Lancaster Gate. Tom had negotiated the terms of her lease.

“I don’t want her at the funeral.”

“I’ll contact her. I have her details somewhere, I think.” Wolsey would not have wanted her to read about his death in the papers. The news should come from a friend.

“I’m not sure how far my husband went in providing for her,” Bess said, opening up the top drawer in the desk and taking out a leather-bound checkbook.

“I don’t think there’s anything in the will, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I suppose I am. Then he didn’t arrange anything with you?”

“Nothing official.”

“Give her this,” Bess said, and tore out a check. “You’ll have to fill in the surname. I don’t know it.”

He took it and read over his glasses.  “A thousand pounds. That’s very generous.”

“No, it’s not. But it’s what I can do without cutting into anyone’s portion.”

He folded the check and put it in his breast pocket. “I’ll see that she gets it and I’ll do my best to keep her away from the funeral.”

“I know you will, Tom. You always do,” Bess said, walking out the door. He was meant to follow, but instead he stood for a moment, looking around at the room, breathing in Wolsey’s scent which still lingered beneath the smell of disinfectant. There was a silence there, beyond the power of thick carpet and old books to absorb sound, like being underwater or wearing protective headphones. He walked over to the desk and turned on the lamp. If Wolsey was there, he wouldn’t want to sit in the dark.

+++

Tom was in his office the next morning, googling travel times to Lancaster Gate, when Rafe came in and told him that Henry Tudor was in the lobby. Tom went out to find Henry and Stephen Gardiner chatting cozily in a pair of armchairs.

“We just heard,” Henry said, standing. Gardiner remained seated, studying his fingernails. “It’s all over the news this morning. I’m a bit surprised to find you working.”

So much for the Larke woman hearing the news first from a friend. He should have gone the night before, but he had been at the accordion file rather longer than he’d expected.

“I was just heading out to take care of some business for Mrs. Wolsey. There’s a lot of arrangements to be dealt with.”

Henry nodded sympathetically. Gardiner stifled a yawn.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Tom asked.

“Gardiner had some ideas. I wanted to run them by you.  But maybe now isn’t the time?”

Tom glanced at Gardiner, who looked like he very much wanted Tom to go away so he could keep his ideas -- and Henry Tudor -- to himself.

“No, it’s fine. Come into the office and we’ll talk there. My business for Mrs. Wolsey can wait another half an hour.”

“It’s not like the old sod’s going anywhere,” Gardiner said under his breath. Tom couldn’t be sure if Henry had heard it. Henry’s face was untouched, neutral, as the three of them passed into Tom’s office.

Before closing the door, Tom looked back at the outer office: Rafe absorbed in a game on his phone; Christophe at his desk across the room, translating away; Richard leaning back in his chair, talking on the phone. A few weeks back, Henry had sat up in bed one morning and said idly that they should all take a trip somewhere--he and Tom and “Tom’s boys,” as Henry called them. “We could all have a lad’s week-end in Amsterdam,” Henry had said enthusiastically.  Tom hadn’t really taken it seriously at the time, and had reminded Henry that Christophe couldn’t travel out of the country just now. That hadn’t stopped Tom from imagining himself sitting with Henry next to a canal, drinking coffee, holding hands; hadn’t stopped him from looking online at gay travel guides for Amsterdam, wondering if one could still get separate but adjoining rooms these days; hadn’t stopped him from leaping forward to a time when he might come out to his boys, to his family. As Tom turned to face Stephen Gardiner’s prying gaze, he realized how foolish the day dreams had been.

+++

The morning of the funeral was clear and cold, with a hoar frost covering the trees in the churchyard. Everyone said how beautiful it looked, how nice it was to be out on such a cold, bright morning, only shame about the circumstances.

Bess held Tom’s arm through the service. Georgina had the girls to look after. Wolsey’s granddaughters were roughly the same age as Tom’s girls would have been. He caught himself studying them during the service. He could see no sign of grief on the eldest, only a stoic look that could mean almost anything, including boredom. Her sister shook slightly as sobs--or perhaps cold--wracked her slight body. Tom reached into his breast pocket and found the little Book of Common Prayer. Thinking he would follow along with the service, he opened it to the front to look for a table of contents. There he found the inscription: _To my daughter, Anne, on her confirmation, with love, Mum_. He snapped the book shut, his eyes blurring with tears. He looked up at Bess who gallantly offered him her handkerchief. He took it, grateful, but somewhat ashamed to be given credit for crying more than the widow.

Bess leaned into him, walking back to the car from the grave side. He’d looked up to see a flash of ginger hair at the front of the crowd. He’d come. He’d come late, but he’d come. He wasn’t alone, of course. Anne was on his arm, making a public show of support.

Tom and Bess made their way across the slippery ground. Henry and Anne walked toward them and Tom’s heart stalled for a moment. They’d be putting him in the ground next if he wasn’t careful.

“Mrs. Wolsey. I’m Henry Tudor, a client of your husband’s. And this--”

“I know who you are,” Bess said. Her voice was almost merry, flirtatious. “There’s a lunch at the parsonage. Why don’t you and Ms. Boleyn join us?”

“We’d love to but we don’t have the time. We’re due in town in an hour. I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said and bent down and hugged her. It was a generous hug, Tom thought.

“Thank you, Henry,” she said with a wan smile. “And thank you,” she said, taking Anne’s hand and giving it a squeeze.

“Anne, I don’t know if you’ve met Cromwell,” Henry said. Tom’s and Henry’s eyes met for a quarter second. Tom wondered if Henry could tell he’d been crying. Henry’s eyes were copiously red. He hadn’t needed to borrow a handkerchief. He’d brought his own. 

“We met once long ago, I think, in Katherine’s office,” she said with a smile as frosty as the morning.

“Yes, I remember it,” Tom said. They’d probably met three or four times over the years in and out of the office, not that he was keeping track.

Anne gazed up at Henry with a look that said, _it’s time we were getting on._ Tom noted that the cold had made her nose go a bit red.

"It’s good to see you, Henry,” Tom said quietly, putting his gloved hand out to him. “Despite the circumstances.”

The leather of Tom’s glove squeaked under Henry’s bare hand, the long fingers raw and red, standing out against the blackness of the leather.

“Likewise, Cromwell. I won’t bring it up now, but we have much to discuss.”

“I’ll call you,” Tom said, as if the idea had only just occurred to him.  Henry nodded and slowly turned back to his companion. He and Anne strode back across the field to Henry’s car.

The parsonage was a blur of being thanked and thanking people for coming, of meager sandwiches arranged on musty linens, the thin veneer of hominess that couldn’t cover the sterility of an empty house used almost exclusively for funerals. He went into the kitchen clutching his phone, stood blinking in the brightly lit space, standing silent on the lino while the ladies of the Parsonage Women’s Auxiliary eyed him with suspicion. It was too soon to ring or text Henry. He’d still be with Anne. Jealousy, lurking since the burial, filled the empty caverns inside him like a cold mist.

He made his excuses to Bess and went home to make dinner for Christophe. He had a desk full of Wolsey’s last will and testament for afters. He tried not to think of how much he wanted to ring Henry, how much he wanted Henry to ring him.

 

**Part II**

The little dog broke free from his mistress and scampered across the path, stopping to sniff a rose bush that was about to pop into bloom.

“McCoy! Come back!”  Anne Boleyn called. “You there! Don’t let him get away!”

Tom stopped his progress through the garden of the Draper’s Hall. He wasn’t anxious to arrive anyway. Henry and Anne’s official engagement was hardly an occasion to be celebrated. For him, at least, it must simply be endured.

“Hello, who have we here?” he said stooping to pick up the little beast. He put his hand down slowly, giving the dog a chance to sniff him before he, in one smooth motion, caught him under the chest and lifted him up into his arms. McCoy was light in his hands and he felt the tiny, racing pulse beneath soft curly fur. McCoy attacked his face with kisses and he laughed holding the dog wriggling at arm’s length. He looked up as a woman stepped from behind Anne to take the dog. She was in the shadow of a magnolia tree with the setting sun behind her. He could not quite see her face, but her hair formed a white blonde halo in the light that dazzled him. He squinted back with the fixed smile he’d practiced in the car.

“Oh, McCoy, honestly,” the woman said huskily and took the dog from him. In the transfer, his arm brushed against hers and a current passed between them, something warm and dry like kindling waiting for a match. She was just then out of the shadow of the tree and he took in her face: the eyes downcast with long blonde lashes, unevenly coated with mascara and a slope of nose that led to a mouth the same color and shape as the rose blossoms.

McCoy whined. “There, there, back to mama,” she cooed, handing the dog back to its owner. Anne Boleyn sat, back erect while Henry posed behind her, their glasses charged and glittering in the setting sun. The woman returned to Anne’s side.

Henry stepped forward and offered a gritted-out smile. “Cromwell. Good to see, you, sir.” He gripped Tom’s hand firmly, almost painfully and Tom’s was reminded of that first night on the sofa in Henry’s hotel suite. _Sir_ he thought to himself. He could almost cry.

“Henry,” Tom said. “Congratulations.”

“Sweetheart, Cromwell is here,” Henry said turning to Anne with the news as if she hadn’t eyes in her head.

“Mr. Cromwell, so good to see you again,” Anne said extending her hand to him. Tom took it lightly and they exchanged pasted on smiles.  

“Miss Boleyn. Lovely to see you as always,” he said.

“And this is my sister, Mary,” Anne said, as the blonde woman reached out for Tom’s hand. Tom took in the face again, noticing her eyes were a gray-blue and, that meeting his gaze head on, she had the most remarkable chin. If she were a man you would say she was lantern jawed. When she smiled--not a pasted on smile, but a hearty and hale smile that seemed to flow from kindness and good humor--her teeth were dazzling like the rest of her. Tom felt somehow lifted off his feet, his heart racing, like the little dog.

“George! George!” Anne said, calling out in the same tone she’d used on McCoy, “Where has he got to? Cromwell, I wanted you to meet my brother, George.”

“Last I saw he was deep in conversation with Uncle Howard,” Mary said.

“Well, another time perhaps,” Tom said and swung his head around looking for a waitress. He had got this far, but now he could use a drink.

“Mr. Cromwell, if you’re thirsty, I think I saw a waitress with some champagne over by the topiary,” Mary said.

“You read my mind. I think I’ll see if I can’t find a drink. Would anyone care for anything?”

Mary drained her glass and said, “Come on, I’ll help you track her down.”

Tom followed, mesmerized by the swirling wake of her skirt as she threaded through the crowd. At the topiary, she handed him a flute full of champagne.

“What should we drink to?” she asked.

“The happy couple?”

A frown fluttered across her face. “I’d rather drink to the dog,” she said ruefully.

“Alright then. Please be upstanding for McCoy. Many happy returns.” he said and clinked her glass. The champagne was dry and cold. Tom drank it more quickly than he intended.

“So, you’re a friend of Henry’s?”

“Yes. We work together,” Tom said. “About six months now.”

“My uncle Howard said you were a lawyer. A clever one at that.”

“I don’t think I know your uncle Howard.”

“You’re one of the lucky ones, then,” she said with an arch look.

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“With my family, it’s best to err on the side of caution.”

“You seem alright,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, I’m the family screw-up. Didn’t you know?”

“No. You?”

“It’s true. Two kids. One ex-husband. No career.”

“Well, you’re not without assets,” he said, trying to flirt. He was terrible at this sort of thing. He always sounded like a creep.

“I reckon I have another five years before my _assets_ , as you so succinctly put it, are totally devalued.”

She couldn’t be much more than thirty. From a pragmatic standpoint, he thought she could squeeze another ten at least out of her looks, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he laughed and said, “no, no” shaking his head.

“Are you married, Mr. Cromwell?”

“I was.”

“Divorced?”

“Widower,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a blush.

“It’s alright. It was a long time ago.” He hated telling people. He’d rather spare them the embarrassment. He always hoped they would somehow know ahead of time.

As if reading his thoughts, she said, “There ought to be cards you could have printed up. I’d like that. Get all the awkwardness out of the way. Mine could say, ‘Boleyn family disappointment’.”

“And mine could say ‘tragic figure,” he said.

“Christ, I feel like getting absolutely legless, but I shouldn’t,” she said finishing her champagne.

“No,” he said with a grave expression. “Save it for the wedding.”

She laughed, a sort of tinkling sound and her teeth dazzled him again.

“So why do you want to get drunk?” 

“Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s that my sister is marrying my...well it’s difficult to explain what Henry and I were to one another.”

Tom almost choked on his champagne.

“You and Henry?!” he said when he’d recovered.

She nodded.

“Well, you are perfectly justified. Go ahead. Get ratted. I’ll join you.”

She looked at him sympathetically, failing to understand.It would be so easy to tell her, he thought. Just say the words. But is that something you tell a stranger at a party? _We both slept with the same guy_. Friendships had been formed over less he supposed.

“Another drink?” he asked.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Have they got anything stronger than this?” he asked waggling his empty glass in his hand.

“They have a bar inside.”

He went to fetch their drinks: gin for her, whiskey for himself and returned to find her sitting with a man, her arms folded across her chest.

“Your gin,” he said, handing her the glass.

“Ta. Mr. Cromwell, this is my brother, George.”

“Good to meet you,” George said, barely looking up.

“Mr. Cromwell was just consulting with me. If you don’t mind, George, it’s a private matter of business.”

“Make it quick. We’ve got photos inside with the happy couple in ten minutes.”

“Christ,” Mary muttered under her breath.

“Say, where did you get those?” George asked, indicating the drinks.

Tom pointed out the bar and George walked away calling “ten minutes, Mary,” over his shoulder.

“What’s this about consulting?” Tom asked, sitting back down next to her. He positioned himself at the far side of the bench, but turned toward her, noticing as he did, the way the elastic of her dress dug slightly into her bare shoulder, fleshy yet firm. The word “toothsome” came to mind for some reason.

“Oh, nothing. I just wanted to be rid of George.”

“You don’t get along with him, then?”

“Not much, no. There was a time when we did…” she trailed off.

“Families, eh?” he said stupidly.

“Families,” she said with a sigh and clinked glasses with him again. They sat drinking quietly, watching the sun sink below the hedges while the crowd thinned out.

“I suppose I should be leaving,” Tom said when he’d drained his whiskey. “I’d only intended to put in an appearance.”

“Lucky you. I have to head in for the photos.”

“Sounds dreadful. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll survive it,” she said hauling herself slowly to her feet.

_Do something, you clod_ , _before she gets away._ Tom thought. “So you’ll be at the wedding then, I suppose?”

“Yes. And you?”

“Yes. I’ll look out for you.”

“I’ll buy you a drink. I owe you one,” she said, smiling. “Good night,” she said and reached out and touched his arm briefly. He watched her walk away into the lit hall, saw her surrounded by Boleyns, being whisked away to the tiresome proceedings. He could hear McCoy barking and Mary shushing him. Tom smiled to himself in the growing dark.

Closing his eyes, he sees her. His Liz in a sunny kitchen. His Liz in a wing back chair watching a crime show on the telly. His Liz taking free kicks in the garden while Gregory tends goal. His Liz: her face half in shadow, half in light. Every year the shadow grows leaving only the burned out impression he sees now under his eyelids, like a man who’s stared too long into the sun.

+++

The next day, Rafe popped his head into Tom’s office and said that “There’s a Mrs. Carey here to see you. She doesn’t have an appointment. From the look of her, she doesn’t need one.”

Tom craned his neck to get a look at the woman in the waiting room. It was Anne Boleyn’s sister, Mary. He hadn’t known her surname. He’d assumed she would have gone back to “Boleyn.” He wondered why she hadn’t. “Well, show her in, then,” Tom said trying to check the excitement in his voice. Rafe led Mary across the office. She removed a silky green scarf and glasses, like an old film star. Her eyes were tinged with red, tears or exhaustion, perhaps, but her rain scrubbed skin glowed in the gray light of his office. Rafe took her coat, hung it on a rack in the corner and left with a cheeky smile, that Tom hoped Mary did not see.

“A pleasant surprise. What can I do for you, Mary?” he asked trying to find his business voice. God, he probably sounded like a teenager. His heart thundered as he made his way back to his desk.

She sat across from him in the client’s chair and crossed her legs. She was wearing green tights to match her scarf. There was a water mark on her calf and she reached down and massaged the area, drying it with her hand.

“Child support, Mr. Cromwell,” she said looking up at him for the first time. “I reckon I’m owed twenty thousand pounds.”  She handed him a file folder.

“I don’t handle family law, I’m afraid.” He said, regretfully. “If I might suggest Tracy Cranmer, however. She’s very good. I can give you her number,” he jotted Cranmer’s number down on the back of one of his own business cards. “ I can put a word in for you, tell her that your ex-husband is behind in his support. It’s cut and dried, I should think.”

“Oh no, it’s not Bill. He’s not the father. Henry Tudor is the father. It’s all there in the file. That’s who I’d be suing.”

Tom did his best to keep the shock from his face. He picked up the folder and saw birth certificates: Catherine: Born 2004, Father: Henry Tudor, Henry: Born 2007; Father: Henry Tudor. Both dates, while Henry was married to Catherine. Both legally adopted by William Carey 2010.

“I thought you knew. I thought everyone knew,” she said apologetically.

“No. I hadn’t heard. Forgive me, but have you not asked Mr. Tudor for support before now?”

“My family handled all of that. Since the engagement, they’ve been busy with Anne. I want to break away from all of them. And to do that, I need money.”

He nodded, comprehending slowly. “I should tell you that I am Mr. Tudor’s solicitor as well. Any further discussion of this case could constitute a conflict of interest.” He handed back the file, feeling like a hypocrite. He had slept with Henry for six months, ignoring the fact that it was a conflict of interest.

“I hadn’t realized. I should have known,” she said rising to leave. “I’m sorry to have taken your time.”

“Look, don’t worry,” Tom said. “I won’t say anything to H--to Mr. Tudor. As far as I’m concerned, this meeting never happened.”

“Thank you. Mr. Cromwell. I appreciate it.”

“Not at all. Call me Tom. Best of luck to you,” he took her hand to shake it goodbye. He put both hands over hers for a moment, a gesture of comfort, he thought. When he released it, she reached out and touched his tie.

“That’s pretty. Silk?” she asked, quietly. He took a step toward her, or perhaps he just swayed in her direction. He was feeling light headed. It had been a lot to take on board at once.

“Yes. Italian,” he managed.

“It’s a nice color. Silver. Like the sky today.”

Tom said nothing. He didn’t want to break the spell.

She smiled self-consciously and turned to leave. Tom didn’t want her to go, but he couldn’t think of a reason for her to stay.  “If there’s anything I can do for you...”

“You don’t have any job openings?”

“Not at the moment. Do you have any qualifications?”

“I have a degree. I read history at uni.”

“Not much need for historians in a law firm, I’m afraid.”

“What about those ladies in suits. Your researchers. I’m good at research.”

“Paralegals. There’s some training. And our paralegals are under-utilized as it is, I’m afraid. Adelle is knitting a sweater, I think, with her down time. The law isn’t what it used to be:  I noticed the other day that there’s a tattoo parlor opening up in our building.”

“Maybe _they_ have an opening,” she joked.

“Yes, maybe,” he laughed. Why couldn’t he think of something hopeful or positive to say?

“Cranmer’s number is on the back of the card,” he stammered. “That’s my number on the other side.”

“Yes,” she said, expectantly.

“We could maybe get a drink sometime, or a meal?”

She took a step back and blinked, evidently surprised.

“Wouldn’t that be conflict of interest, Tom?”

“Only if you actually bring suit against my client.”

“And why wouldn’t I do that?”

“I’ve seen your file. I would advise him to settle out of court, for the full amount.”

“Oh. Well. In that case, I’ll think about it,” she said. He took up her coat and helped her into it. Again, he brushed her shoulder with his hand and again that same warm friction, like a fire waiting to happen.

He was at work in his study that evening, when the text came. “I’ve thought about it. And why not?”

They settled on lunch that Thursday. When Thursday came, Tom got a text from Mary in the morning. “Something’s come up. How about dinner at mine around 7:00?” 

Dinner was a bigger deal. At hers no less. He spent his lunch hour at the off license being indecisive about wine, which wasn’t like him. He wished he’d had known a day or two in advance, he could have gotten Christophe to make a dessert. The food hall at Marks would have to do.

He was in the car on the way to Mary’s when the phone vibrated. He read the text from Henry at a light: “Meet me for a drink? Metro bar?”

“Sorry. On my way out.” The light changed while he was thinking about whether or not to say “for a date.”

“Later then? My usual suite?” came the message back.

Since Wolsey’s funeral, they had been together almost every day, but always at work. The late night drinks in Henry’s hotel suite had stopped as he’d always known they would. And yet it was almost as if Henry had known that he’d met someone, was moving on or at least trying to. But how could he? Tom had barely spoken to Mary at the party. They’d had a drink on a bench by the topiary. That had been the extent of it. The barking of his GPS snapped him out of his reverie. He’d taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way.

He sat in the car in front Mary’s house. The house was a buff stone, new construction, made to look old. Tom noted she was missing her downspout. Thing like that could ruin a foundation. He looked at the lurid pink cake box on the seat next to him, belted in for protection against sudden stops. Next time he’d bring her a downspout instead.

“I’ve moved on.”  He typed the words, sat with his finger hovering over the send for a full five seconds before he changed it to “Not tonight. *sad face.” He had typed the words, even if he hadn’t actually sent them, as though that were some kind of progress.

She answered the door in a long, black dress, her hair swept up loosely on her neck. Tom handed her the pink box.

“What’s this?”

“Pudding.”

“Lovely. I’m cracking on with things. It’ll be ready in a minute.”

She showed him to a seat on the sofa, a modern overstuffed type that Tom usually disliked. He sunk into the plush cushions, still clutching his bottle of wine. He set it on the coffee table, leaning forward, awkwardly.

“Should I open it?”

“Yes. I almost forgot I had it.” _Nerves_. Tom thought.

She disappeared into the kitchen to open the bottle, saying over her shoulder, “we’re having tapenade on toast for starters.”

“Sounds great.”

“It’s Tesco’s Finest.”

He laughed.

“Then lamb curry for mains. Not Tesco’s Finest.”

“Tesco’s worst?”

She laughed, sounding nervous. “No, family recipe. My mother went through an Indian cookery phase in the 70s.”

“I’m surprised you remember the 70s. You don’t look old enough.” Tom had calculated the age difference, 17 years, after looking at her file. He tried to push it out of his mind.

“Thank you. I don’t remember the 70s. But it was a long phase.” She said, coming through with a glass in each hand.

They each clung to an arm of the sofa, chatting casually, all the while maintaining a sort of desperate defiance of the hungry cushions, which always seemed about to suck them in for good. She handed him his glass and he took a grateful drink. It was warm and fruity--altogether a decent cab that he’d drunk a dozen times. He didn’t know why it had taken him so long to decide on it.

“Nice,” she said.

“It’s one of my favorites.”

He felt the blood rise to his face as he took another long sip. She freed herself from the sofa and brought in the little toasts. They spent the next few minutes trying to avoid spilling olive bits or appearing to eat too quickly, though Tom was starving. It had been a long week already. He restrained himself, while the butterflies roamed his stomach and he finished his wine.

She poured him another glass and urged him to take the last toast. He did both reluctantly. He felt a little flush. Her dress was long but hardly modest: cut in very sharply at the shoulders, leaving most of her back bare. He leaned in toward her. He wanted very much to kiss her there on her shoulder, to nibble on that toothsome flesh he’d seen that night in the garden. It had been a long time since there was a girl and a sofa. A long time. And there had never been a girl like this. Not even close. His Liz had been lovely, of course, and his memory made her more so, but Mary was an absolute blinder. It wasn’t just her looks but her manner, so lively and warm. As if everything she had to say and do in the world was just for him. She edged toward him and he wondered if he should kiss her. Surely he should wait till after dinner. That was the expected thing. He really didn’t know. It was as if he were revisiting a youth he’d never had, perhaps no one ever had. He should kiss her now, he thought. She was looking across at him, softly, a slight smile on her face. The moment passed. She reached for the bottle and topped up his glass. He cursed himself. What if another chance never came? He could still screw this up. Was likely to. His head was getting muddy. He should stop drinking wine.

She went into the kitchen to see to the rice, “I’m afraid I only have beer to go with dinner,” she said over her shoulder. Tom, without much thinking about it, followed her into the kitchen.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she said surprised to see him standing in the doorway. He stepped toward her. He should just take her in his arms. Do it now. What would be the worst that could happen? Rejection? A smack across the mouth? It would be preferable to the tightening coil inside him. If only he could make her understand. His intentions weren’t as creepy as they looked to that small sober piece of him that stood apart watching, waiting. She turned back to the stove and poured the rice into the saucepan. She added some salt, and the water boiled up in a sudden frenzy. He was within an arm’s length now, leaning over her shoulder, taking in her warm, spicy scent. Perhaps that was the curry bubbling away on the back burner? No, he thought as his lips grazed her neck. It was her. She leaned back into him, her lips parted slightly. Their heads rotated toward one another and their mouths came together gently in a tiny, infinitely soft collision. Tom felt he was sinking back into that couch, helpless. An angry buzzer sounded somewhere behind him.

Mary pulled away, eyes wide. “It’s the back door. Stay there. I’ll be right back,” she said, slipping away. He was left standing, watching the heaving rice, the sticky white liquid threatened to overflow. He moved the saucepan to a smaller burner and turned it as low as it would go. It was just the postman or a neighbor, at the door, he told himself but she was still not back yet. He took a couple of steps toward the window and saw a man--tall and handsome--looming over Mary on the porch. Tom ducked out of the window before he was spotted and crept back toward the door, leaning noiselessly against it, his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest.

“You can’t just drop by whenever you feel like it.”

“I thought Thursday was Bill’s night to take the kids.”

“It is. But I’m not on my own.”

“I see.”

“We didn’t have a date, Bob. I haven’t heard from you all week.”

“For Christ’s sake, Mary. I thought we’d moved past all that.”

“Past what? Speaking to one another? Making plans?”

“No, it’s just that I thought-”

“You thought the kids were out so you would drop by because I’m always here for you when you want me.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth. I just thought we had a regular thing is all.”

“Well, you thought wrong. Good night, Bob.”

“I just want to know. I mean, if I wouldn’t have turned up here, would you have told me you were seeing someone else.”

“Good night.”

“No. I have the right to know, I think.”

“No. No, you don’t. Now leave. And don’t come back. Thursday or ever.”

“Mary, come on don’t be like that. It was just a misunderstanding.”

Tom heard a muffled noise that sounded like a struggle. He could hold back no more. That coiled thing inside him turned to anger, to action. He opened the door and stepped between them on the porch, nearly pushing the man off the step.

“So this is the geezer. Nice. A bit old, don’t you think?” he sneered.

“It’s time you left, mate,” Tom said.

“Don’t _mate_ me, _pops_.” He poked an angry finger into Tom’s chest. Tom squinted up into the taller man’s eyes.

“Leave,” Tom said flatly. Bob scoffed and put his hand up as if to push Tom, who grabbed hold of it quickly, using the arm as a lever and push Bob against the wall of the house.

The man cursed into the bricks. Tom secured his grip on the arm, pushing the face harder into the wall.

“Enough, both of you!” Mary cried.

Tom was losing his grip, but he pulled harder, hoping to convince more quickly.

“Alright, alright. Let go. I give. What more do you want?”

“I want you to leave,” Tom grunted, his strength beginning to give out.

“I will. I promise.”

Tom slowly released him and the man took a step off the porch, nursing his arm. “Now sling yer 'ook,” Tom said, letting the Putney come through in his voice.

“You’re lucky you didn’t break my arm, you bastard.”

“ _You’re_ lucky you mean. On your way, then!” Tom said, moving toward him.

“Fine. Fine,” he said, and turned to go, calling out over his shoulder, “Good luck to you, pops! You’ll need it. Once she gets her hooks into you, look out.”

Tom stood his ground till he heard the man start his car. Only then did he turn back toward the house. Inside, the timer for the rice was screaming and Mary was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table with the palm of her hand pressed to her forehead.

“Do you want me to go? Give you time to sort things out?” Tom said, canceling the timer and shutting off the gas. He lifted the lid and fluffed the rice with a fork, not knowing what else to do. He turned around and she was standing beside him, close.

“No. Stay for dinner. You must be hungry.”  She said. He smelled the warm spicy scent of her again, remembered their almost kiss.

“Bloody starving,” he said, stepping toward her so that he could feel her breath on his cheek, feel the warmth pouring off her body.  He reached across the tiny gap between them and took her chin in his hand, guiding her mouth to his. She grabbed his neck with both hands, pulling their bodies together, working her knee in between his legs. His cock stiffened as she pressed her body hard against his.  He wrapped his arms around her and held her as tightly as he could, feeling her breath, shallow fast, tasting sweat on her upper lip. She broke the kiss and he nipped at her chin and neck fiercely. She tilted her head back and pushed his face into her breast so that his cheek was flush against the curve of it, and --dear God, it almost wrecked him there and then-- the hard little nub of an erect nipple.

With one eye, he surveyed the kitchen with its awkwardly high counters and cold, hard tile floor, looking for a way to fuck her there that wouldn’t result in permanent injury. To his relief, Mary led him by the hand back through to the sitting room, where he sank back into the hated sofa, pulling her down on top of him. Like teenagers, they struggled out of their clothes, which got lost between the cushions, and felt their bare flesh marked by the upholstery. 

They rolled over, threatened to topple. Tom stood on the floor one last time, getting his bearings, making the barest of plans. He crawled toward her, his bare knees screaming under him. He winced, she giggled and lifted her foot to his face. He kissed her heel, her calf, the underside of her knee; moving his thumbs across the smooth, white plane of her thigh, before pushing her legs wide apart. He did his best to empty his mind. Tried not to think about anything but the smell at the center of her, of her taste, tangy, somehow part brine and part marrow; the feel of her cunt under his tongue, taking his time as she wrapped her fingers into his hair, bucked her clit, against his mouth. This two or three inches of her became his world, everything focused in anticipation of the arch of her back, the precious stillness. Then, later, when they’d found a condom in his wallet and she’d helped him into it; when at last he’d pulled her by the heels down the sofa and entered her, she’d dug her fingers into his shoulders, rolled back her hips, squeezing and releasing by turns-- the final item in a long line of instructions which he only hoped he’d managed to follow correctly. He was falling again, this time forward, out of control--any command was hers now, lodged in her hips.

+++

Tom woke up to the sound of rain on the roof. It took him a moment to work out where he was, and to whom the quiet steady breath beside him belonged. A few hours earlier, on the now legendary sofa, they’d dozed a bit before Mary had found a robe and served first the curry then the pudding. They had eaten ravenously, wrapped in a blanket watching the BBC World News.

He remembered as he sat listening to the rain, what her boyfriend had said, about her hooks. It had happened. He had let it. Her hooks were in him deep. In the memory of her fingers on his shoulder, in the complete plunge of his stomach just thinking about how she looked under him. If these were her hooks, he never wanted to be free of them. He mused on weddings, till the necessary thought of Henry Tudor made his blood go cold. Henry had not been in his mind once when he was fucking her. That alone was a small triumph. He wondered, ruefully if Henry had been in hers.

He looked around now in the dim, rainy pre-dawn. It was a very restful place, with neutral color palette, the sort of thing decorators tell you should be in a bedroom. It reminded him of the apartment of Wolsey’s Janet, with its tasteful decor and view of the park. The day he’d gone there with her thousand pounds and friendly advice about staying clear of Wolsey’s family, it had been slightly disappointing, the apartment. He had expected pink flocked wallpaper, gilt furniture. But she’d splashed out on nice things, understated investment pieces and now was at sixes and sevens paying for it all, worrying that she’d never find another Wolsey. She’d taken Bess’ money and cried on Tom’s shoulder and they got through half a bottle of vodka reminiscing, laughing telling, off-color stories about Wolsey, waking the dead. Tom had stayed till it was almost dark, sobering himself by walking round Hyde park, sitting on some of his old benches.

Tom propped himself up in bed, now, almost giving up on sleep. He felt Mary roll over in bed.

“Everything alright?”

“More than alright,” he said. “Just listening to the rain. I think you have a scupper down.”

“What in God’s name is a scupper?”

“The place where two halves of the gutter come together in the down pipe.”

“Do you think it’s serious?” She asked, sitting up in bed. He couldn’t quite see her face in the dim light to tell whether or not she was in earnest and he didn’t yet know the signs of mischief in her voice.

“I think we’ll survive the night anyway.”

“Good,” she said flopping back down, punching her pillow beneath her.

“I can look into it in the morning if you like. If it lets up.”

“Don’t you have to go to work?”

“It’s been a long time since I took a holiday.”

“So you’re going to take your well earned day of rest and use it to clean my scupper?”

“When you say it like that it sounds dirty.”

“I have a little man to do these things.”

“Sounds even more dirty, now,” he said biting her shoulder playfully.  She put a hand heavily on his face. Let out a deep sigh.

“He’s not that sort of little man.”

“There’s also a piece of the downspout missing as well. I noticed it when I came in. Your little man must not be very observant.”

“I suppose not.”

“I could be your little man. I mean, if it’s alright, with you.”

“You really are quite passionate about this aren’t you?”

“I am. I’m passionate about scuppers. You should see me on the topic of uneven pavements. Of dry rot around windows. Of insulation.”

“God help me, but alright, Tom. You can be my little man. Just for tomorrow. Till the kids come home.”

“When’s that?”

“Half three or so. Do you think you can manage by then?”

“It depends on what’s in your garage? How tall is your ladder?”

“I don’t have one,” she said, rolling over, taking his hand and tucking it around her. “The little man always brings his own ladder.”

“Then we’ll need to make a trip to the B&Q. We get the downspout at the same time.”

“Somehow I knew you were going to say that. Why do I get the feeling that a trip to the B&Q is your idea of an ideal day off?”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Afraid so. Where does it come from, this hobby of yours? Surely, you can afford to get your own little man.”

“I could. I don’t know if you know about me. Do you know about me? About the accident?”

“You mean about your wife?” she asked.

“Yes. That’s what I mean. There’s more. I didn’t tell you,” He felt her body tense beneath his hand. “My two daughters were killed as well. It was a car accident.” She squeezed his arm.

“God, Tom, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright. Well, not exactly,” he struggled, “but it’s years ago, now. And I still have my boys. Gregory my son. I think you met my nephew, Richard. At the office.”

“Oh yes, he seemed very nice.” She sounded relieved at a change of topic.

“Ha, well he can be, I suppose. When the mood strikes him.”

“My Catherine is like that. Moody. You never know which one you’re going to get: stroppy madam or thoughtful, shy young lady. She’s very brainy, you know. Don’t know where she gets it from.”

“Must be her mother’s side,” Tom said, feeling a bit treacherous. Henry wasn’t exactly thick, just a bit childish.

“So anyway, you were telling me about how you got interested in DIY.”

“You really want to know? After the accident, I needed something to keep busy on weekends, on holidays, so I did projects. It started inside, decorating the house, changing things so they didn’t remind me as much. Then I started on the outside, on the garden, the walls were in dreadful shape.”

“How did you learn all of this, building walls and the like?”

“I took books out of the library, sent away for them. The internet is a big help. You wouldn’t believe the things you can pick up on YouTube.”

“So you have your hobby. And work. And that’s enough for you?”

“In a way, I suppose it is. Or was. Till the last six months or so.”

“What happened then?”

“I met someone.” He was leaning her towards it, fumbling in the dark.

"Oh. I see." Her voice sounded flat. Almost jealous.

"It didn't work out in the end."

“Well, her loss is my gain,” she said, bringing his hand to her lips.

He paused, took a deep breath. It had to be now. Or it would be never. Now, he decided. Now.

“It wasn’t a ‘her’.”

She sat up, dropping his hand and turned on the light. “Say that again.”

“It wasn’t a woman,” he said shading his eyes at the sudden brightness. God, he had really fucked up. Read the whole situation wrong.

“Oh. Well. That’s ...unexpected news.” He looked at her, anxiously. She seemed to recover slightly and carried on, “So this, this...cad, then he broke your heart.”

“You could call him that, yes. I think ‘cad’ is a good word. But that’s only part of it, really. It’s just that I needed more than he could manage. It was doomed from the start.”

“I know the type.”

“As a matter of fact, you do. Know him I mean.”

“What?”

“Biblically even.”

“Oh, God. Not-”

“I’m afraid so.”

“When? When was all this?”

“It started in November I think. It was off and on for months.”

She was quiet. He had made a terrible mistake.

“Are you alright? I know it’s a shock. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s ok. I’m just processing. Give me a minute anyway.” She got up from the bed. Dear God. Tom thought, as he watched her searching the floor for her robe, what had he been thinking?

“Of course,” he said, willing himself to look the wall. She found her robe and slid into it. Tom felt the mattress shift at the end of the bed as she sat down.

“No wonder you looked so odd when I told you about Henry and me.”

“It was a shock to me too,” Tom said, turning back to her.

“It must have been.”

“God, I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you earlier. At the party. But Britishness, I suppose, prevented me. And then when you showed me the file. I was just so disgusted. Not by you, of course, but by him. That he could just walk away from his responsibility like that.”

“It all seems like a bad dream now. A kind of insanity.”

“How can your parents be supportive of Anne’s marrying him?”

“They’ve always wanted the connection. Even if it means throwing me to the wolves.  When Henry wouldn’t marry me, they blamed me. Said I gave in too easily.”

“Christ. What century is this?” he cried. “No wonder you want out.”

She stood and disappeared into the bathroom. He saw the lights go on. He heard water running.

“Shit, I just thought of something: Anne. She knew,” she said, returning to the bedroom with a face flannel in her hand. “She suspected something. Thought it was that assistant of his.”

“Well, I think the assistant was in the mix as well, I’m afraid.”

“Fucking hell,” Mary said and went back to the bathroom.

“Indeed,” Tom said to himself. He wondered if he should get up and get dressed. She probably wanted him gone. His clothes, he remembered, were down in the sitting room. It would be an awkward trip, naked as he was. Funny it hadn’t bothered him on the way upstairs. Now he’d have to pass the bathroom. He wished she would shut the door, leave him to skulk away in peace.

“How did a sensible bloke like yourself get mixed up with Henry Tudor of all people?” She asked, returning to the room.  She looked different. Pale. The grooves under her eyes had deepened suddenly. She had taken her makeup off.

“I might say the same of you! How does a lovely, level-headed woman…” he trailed off, struggling to find a polite way to put it.

“Have not one but two children with a married man?”

“Yes.”

“Damned if I know. But it’s nice of you to say I’m level-headed.” She switched off the light. Tom blinked in the dark, happily, figuring that if she wanted him to leave, she would have left the light on.

“You were tonight. With whatshisname. And too right. He was taking liberties.”

“Oh, you’re just saying that because I picked you in the end,” She said, pulling back the covers and climbing in, still in her robe.  “You’d be talking out of the other side of your face if I hadn’t.”

“Of course, I would. But you did pick me. And it shows a lot of judgement,” he joked. She laughed and he relaxed a bit, happy to change the topic for a moment.

“And you were quite…” her voice sounded dreamy. He wished he could see her face.

“What?”

“Quite something anyway. I don’t like violence. Bullies. That sort of thing.”

“God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let him get to me like that.”

“Don’t apologize. Bob Stafford was the bully,” she said the name with derision. 

“Is that what he’s called.”

“Don’t you know him? He’s one of Henry’s tennis mates.”

“I don’t know Henry’s tennis mates. I don’t play.”

“Me neither. Henry always nagged me to learn and I never would be arsed.”

Tom laughed. “Oh god, me neither. He always wanted me to come to the club. Grab a match or a set or game or whatever it is with the boys.”

“Anne is learning tennis, poor cow.”

“Better her than me.”

“In more ways than just tennis,” she said laying her head down on his chest.

He patted her hair “Yes. This isn’t too weird is it?”

“No, it’s nice.”

“I mean this whole situation,” he said, he said gesturing roundly.

“It’s very daytime talk show, isn’t it?” she said.

“My baby mama is dating my ex, on the next _Tricia_.”

“Exactly. How do you know about _Tricia_ , anyway?”

“There was a time after the accident when I watched a lot of telly. No one wanted me to work. Said I should stay home. It was almost as if I was in quarantine or something.”

“Did it help? Staying home?”

“Christ, no. Work was the only thing that helped. And even that...” he trailed off, still stroking her hair.

She sighed. “And then you met Henry.”

“Yes. But like I said before, it was never really going anywhere. You know.”

“I do. I ended one of those tonight, remember?”

“Well it was more like last night, but yeah.”

“Does your family know? About Henry. That you’re…”

“Bisexual. There’s a word for it.”

“Right. Do they?”

“No. Well, maybe one of them does. Christophe. He’s not exactly my son. He’s sort of adopted. He knows.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose it’s too late to tell the rest of them now. Wouldn’t be worth the aggro. Wait till next time around.”

Tom felt suddenly bereft at the idea of there being a next time around.

“That’s the rationalization anyway. I’ll just have to keep seeing you forever, I guess. It’s simpler that way.” 

“No getting out of it that easily. I’d make you tell them.”

“You know, I wanted to tell them. It just didn’t work out. But I told you.”

“Yes, you did. That was a little reckless don’t you think?”

“Perhaps. I just wanted to start off on the right foot. I’m tired of sneaking around.”

“I might have thrown you out.”

“But you didn’t. I somehow knew you wouldn’t.” Tom said, almost forgetting that he’d been completely terrified that she’d do just that.

“Well, it’s too good an opportunity to let slip. I mean do you realize? We’ve both had the same bad boyfriend?”

“I know. It’s comforting isn’t it?”

“Yes, damn it. It is. I can really dish with you.”

“Good God, please don’t. I don’t think I can take the details. It’s all a bit too fresh for me.”

“You’ll just have to stick around then. See where all this leads to.”

“Alright then,” he said, his throat constricting around the words.

After a while, Mary’s breathing evened out and he realized she was asleep. He worked himself gently from beneath her head, hoping to manage a few hours himself. After all, he had a slate full of DIY in the morning.

+++

He might have blamed the quality of light which turned skin--even his, imagine!-- to gold silk. Perhaps it was an effect of waking among the higher orders, crushing memory under foot like a black beetle. His past was an old cellar full of rot, his future a sunny dome of promise. It was nice to wake up needed.

After breakfast of eggs and leftover curry, they went to the B&Q. She walked among the high scaffolds of sheetrock like Venus in Vulcan’s workshop. It can be awkward baggage to be stunningly beautiful, not heavy of course, but it can make passing through certain doorways difficult, he imagined, anyway. Yet, there is no fur knuckled clerk of lumber and hardware that would not put his hand in fire to be given the opportunity to cut a length of downspout custom for her.

Tom was reduced to chief admirer, a position he was content with for the moment, savoring the way she touched his arm fondly when she pointed something out. In response, he smiled and laid a quiet, possessive hand at the base of her neck. Though he told himself that she looked like Oedipus’ daughter leading the old blind king around the B&Q he wanted someone from the real world to feel his luck. He texted Rafe a series of terse instructions for clearing his calendar for the day to which he received the reply: *sunglasses face*,* gorilla*, *pistol.* 

No work would be done at the office today without him, Tom was sure. Christophe was slowly being turned into an Englishman with all the accompanying coffee breaks, while Rafe never did anything except anticipate Tom’s every whim and carry it out before he could think much about it. No whims, no work. It was simple as that.

+++

They sat in her overgrown garden, sipping tea in a patch of sun. He drew up a list of further jobs and the inevitable supplies that would accompany them. She suddenly looked up from a stack of adverts on waterproof decking and asked, “Do you think he knows?”

“Does who know what?”

“Henry. Do you think he knows about us?”

“I don’t see how. Unless you told Anne.”

“As it happens I didn’t. I don’t know why. Didn’t want a fuss in case it didn’t work out, I suppose.”

“Then I don’t think so. He’s not that observant on his own.”

“He watches you, though,” she said. “I noticed at the party. He watched you when you went to the bar for drinks. I think he sent George along to separate us.”

Tom nodded, wondering which of them had been the object of jealousy. Both perhaps.

“Shall we sit together at the wedding?” he asked.

“I’m stuck at the head table, I’m afraid.”

“I can sit with the children if you like.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’ve not even met them yet. They can sit with my parents.”

“I could stay and meet them now. It’s nearly three o’clock.”

“I think it might be confusing to them. They aren’t used to men they don’t know being around.”

“Bob usually long gone by this time, then?” As soon as he’d said it, he regretted it.

She looked at him wounded, slightly. “Yes, but let’s just give it a little time. Give me a chance to get used to this first.”

He finished his tea. He was pushing too hard. He suddenly felt crusty and self-conscious in yesterday’s shirt and his office trousers. He ought to be getting on home. He had been reluctant to leave, feeling that if he left her sight for a moment, she might forget about him. He decided to do it quickly, like pulling a plaster. He stood to go.

“Well, I should be moving on.”

“All right, love,” she said, stretching, arching her back. Smiling at him. _Love_. His heart stalled. He blinked at her in disbelief.

“You ok?” she asked.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll call you or text you or…”

“Maybe we could dinner again soon. With the kids this time.”

He smiled. “If you like.” He kissed her forehead, taking a quick sniff of her hair before walking swiftly across the lawn to his car. Spices: oranges and cloves and coconut and cardamon.

+++

He was seated near the head table at the reception with, among others, Professor Thomas More and his wife, Alice. More had been Henry’s tutor at Oxford, but they had fallen out quite publicly over Henry’s pursuit of Catherine’s patents. There had been a letter to the editor of one of the broadsheets. More had used the brief publicity to equate Henry’s brand of capitalism with what he called “a new recklessness in the Conservative Party.” By the time he was done, Henry was to blame for most things and the election of Donald Trump in America for the rest. Tom was somewhat surprised to see More on the guest list after that, though the professor had taken on a slight glamour since his feud with Henry. Anne could never resist any hint of glamour. He did a quick calculation as to what being seated with More meant for his own stock in Henry’s favor. Not that it mattered, really. 

Tom’s table was seemingly trapped in a bubble of awkward silence, while all around there was the rise and fall of exuberant conversation. They all drank heavily and looked anxiously over their shoulder for the waiter to bring the next course, which would be accompanied with the next bottle. Rising above the din of chatter in the hall, was a persistent clinking of glassware with silver, while the members of the wedding party toasted the bride and groom. Tom exchanged meaningful glances with Mary and that was almost enough to get him through it. He smiled and gave her a little wave.

“Well, Cromwell,” More said with a dyspeptic look. “I see you are all for this union between Henry and his wife’s secretary.”

“Ex wife. And her title is now Vice President in Charge of Community Relations.”

“A title you were no doubt instrumental in helping bring about.”

Tom shrugged.

“To a lawyer,” More said, addressing his wife in a lecturing tone. Alice More looked as though she were feigning interest and that doing so was a frequent requirement in her life. “There are no broken marriages, no fractured corporations, only new opportunities for work, for employment. New mergers to broker.”

“So I’m an opportunist in your eyes?” Tom asked, prodding his dry, stringy beef.

“Some might say,” More said, finishing his wine.

“A think piece in _The Guardian_ on the election. So close on the heels of that letter to the editor about Henry. What was that? A fucking accident? Or an opportunity.”

The other guests at the large round table--it seated 12 after all-- looked appalled. A silver haired woman who had a few minutes earlier introduced herself as “Margaret,” shifted away from him as if she could no longer bear to be near him. At the same time, Alice More burst out with a single loud, “Ha!” which landed at a moment of relative calm in the rest of the hall. As a result, a few heads turned their way.

Tom looked up at the head table, wondering if Alice’s voice had carried that far. Mary was just standing to do her toast. She looked pale, nervous. She lifted her glass. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said in slightly shaky voice. She paused, to gather courage, Tom supposed. He wondered if she was going to raise another toast to McCoy. “What can I say about these two people standing before me that hasn’t been said?” Dear God, Tom thought. You could say volumes but please don’t. “So I’d like to raise a toast. To new beginnings,” she said and gave a pointed look at Tom. He lifted his glass, blushing. “Hear, hear!” he cried and finished his wine with one go. He could drink to that.

+++

The first dance was over and the obligatory opening salvo of _Celebration_ by Kool and the Gang filled the hall. Anne shifted her expression to a party face for the benefit of the half dozen cameras still pointed her way while Henry went for the cheap laugh with a _Saturday Night Fever_ finger point at the ceiling. _Disco_ , Tom thought, pursing his lips in annoyance, _deserved better._ Mary joined Tom at the edge of the dance floor, shuffling tentatively in time to the music. He took her by the hand and reeled her in, tucking her up against him, his arms locked around her bare shoulders. Henry’s eye wandered across to them, heavy lidded with wine, perhaps, or self-contentment. _I’ve made my choices_ , his generous smile said, _we’ve all had a lucky escape_.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to betas Lynne and Alix for their endless patience and skill. Thanks too, to Idlesuperstar for answering a lot of questions about weddings in the old country.


End file.
